Batman: Origins
by Life at Zero
Summary: A retelling of Batman's beginning. Set in the late 1960's, it follows the story of young Bruce Wayne and some new characters that I created for the new series. This is a planned trilogy, just be wary of some language and adult themes and violence.
1. Prologue

**November 14, 1948  
Gotham City**

Victor Karlov had believed in God once, a very long time ago. He felt no connection to his faith now, as he stumbled through the back alleys of Gotham in the pouring rain.

Victor barely felt anything from the neck down, but knew already that his body was shaking. The cold had long since cut through his jacket and overalls, and was now working its way throughout his entire body.

It was the desperation that would forever curse him. He had no shelter, no food, no money, and no life. Victor was a man lost in the world.

After hours of shifting through the rain swept city, he found himself standing under the local movie theater awning. He rubbed his frozen hands together and breathed heavily into them. Looking down into a puddle at his feet, he was taken aback at the man he had become. Victor's six foot three frame, once large and intimidating, had now grown wide and sulking, giving him the appearance of a man worn by time. His fingers and hands were dirtied by years of grime without proper care. A tree trunk neck still held up a large, square-jawed Russian head. However, his blond beard was now grizzled and wild; his shoulder length hair was tied back and kept in a dark grey wool cap.

Finally, he could take his life no longer. From his rain soaked jacket he pulled a Stechkin APS pistol. The Russian-made weapon felt good in his hands; it was one of the few handguns large enough to fit his massive palms comfortably. He slipped a metal casing of twenty bullets, more than enough for any job.

Victor held the gun at his side, so that the folds of his jacket covered it entirely. His body was shaking with anticipation, he couldn't bear to wait another moment. He had been denied true happiness all his life, and if he wasn't given a chance, he would just have to take someone else's.

The first man to walk out of the movie theater caught Karlov's eye. He was wearing a suit, which wasn't uncommon for a man in Gotham's business district. However, Victor noticed the quality and overall clean look of the jacket. This man had money, or at least he was trying to pretend he had money. He emerged holding a middle-aged woman's hand, and was accompanied shortly thereafter by a child, perhaps nine or ten years old.

Victor knew it was his time to strike. His training from the Russian KGB fueled his aging body now, as he took off across the pavement and was in front of the man in two large steps. Before he could react, Victor grabbed his left arm and twisted it. The gun was buried in his neck before he was completely turned around. He now held his hostage with his face towards his wife and child. Victor was taken aback by the woman's shrill scream.

"Empty his pockets!" He yelled. Victor was surprised by the gruff, hoarse tone of his voice. He had not spoken English in almost two days, and he had not heard his own voice for almost twenty four hours.

People began spilling out of the movie theater now, and a large commotion was occurring. Women screamed, men grabbed children, and a large group began running around the parking lot.

The wife, now bubbling with incoherent words and tears, began emptying her husband's pockets. She put his wallet, keys, and two cigars on the pavement in front of her. Victor then pointed the heavy gun at the woman. She let loose a scream, and her husband reached for the gun from within Victor's grasp. The Russian expected the move and threw the man to the ground. The sharp, wailing sound of sirens now cut through the downpour. Victor knew that it was now or never. Grabbing his stolen gains, he kicked the woman over and leaned his hand down. With two sharp cracks of his pistol, the man and woman were dead.

Turning around to escape down the alley, Victor once again noticed their son. He had been so stunned and quiet that Victor forgot completely about him even being there. Deciding that he wasn't worth a bullet, the Russian pushed him to the ground and ran into the night.


	2. The Promise

**October 16, 1962  
Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

_Bruce felt himself paralyzed, tears streaming down his face. He felt the crack of the bullet; he could smell the crisp powder. But he couldn't stop him; he couldn't save his father or mother. _

_Why am I so helpless! It was all he could think about as he hit the ground. Bruce stayed there, motionless, as the ambulance and police arrived. _

_Why didn't you take me too?_

Bruce Wayne awoke with a start, almost jumping out of his bed. Morning light seeped through the Venetians, giving his spacious room an almost striped look. He reached over his body and picked up the alarm clock off of his dresser. It was almost five in the morning.

Bruce slid off his mattress and hit the ground with a thud. He always began his morning training with a few dozen push ups and sit ups to loosen him up, but he almost never woke up this late. Thirty seconds into his calisthenics, he heard a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Alfred." Across the room, wooden double doors opened and a slim, aging butler entered. Alfred had been the Wayne butler since after the Second World War, and had adopted the role of father figure for Bruce after his parents were killed. Bruce was much older now, and nobody knew it more than Alfred. The tired old man had seen his fair share of death and defeat in his life, and he wished for nothing more than peace of mind for his young master in his later years. Time wore across his face now more than ever, and his hair, though parted and combed, was white and thinning.

"Master Wayne," he said in his calm British accent. "Your morning tea, sir." Alfred placed the silver carafe on the dresser next to Bruce. "Today is a very special day, Master Wayne."

"Oh really?" Bruce pushed himself upright and thumbed his teacup. "What's the occasion?"

"Why sir, it's your birthday today." Bruce was honestly surprised. He had lost all sense of time recently, mostly due to his inability to sleep. Bruce leaned over and flicked on the television to check the date. Kennedy was speaking to the country again, commenting on the Soviet menace and the Cubans firing missiles.

"Well, it's the sixteenth alright. Might be the last sixteenth we ever see at this rate." Bruce commented.

"Well sir, personally I doubt the Russians will do anything. They just seem to be showboating, playing their intimidation card instead of opting for a real war. Quite cowardly, in my opinion."

"Alfred, I like to think that a coward is more dangerous than an honorable man. Especially when he is given an opportunity to strike first." Bruce's eyes seemed to glaze over, as he drifted off into his memories.

"Well, I will leave you be Master Wayne."

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce stumbled over to his wall opposite the doorway. Dozens of framed newspaper clippings were hung like drapes, each outlining the events from his childhood, the fateful night from almost fifteen years ago.

His parents were public transportation moguls, running the Wayne Freight and Bus Empire. When they were killed, he inherited their massive fortune at age eighteen. However, even with all of the money he could ever want, and an entire city of women who would want to meet him, Bruce never really experienced happiness.

He wanted to save his parents so badly, but he knew how weak he was. His parents raised him sheltered, even though scum like their murderer walked the streets of Gotham unchecked.

It was there; at that moment that Bruce Wayne made a promise to his parents. He had trained his body and mind under the greatest teachers that money could buy. For that past decade, he had grown from a frail, weak child to a master martial artist and scholar. He promised to his father and mother that he, Bruce Wayne, would avenge their death and everyone else who died unjustly in Gotham City.

"I won't fail you this time." He mumbled. "I promise."


	3. The Sign

Much to Alfred's disdain, Bruce left the house at exactly twelve noon, just two hours before his extravagant birthday party was set to begin. Bruce didn't care much for parties; most of the people he knew were either greedy barons who wanted money or old friends of his parents who just felt sorry for him.

"Being late to your own birthday party wouldn't be very appropriate, Master Wayne." Alfred had told him before he left.

"I can't make any promises, Alfred. Just tell them I have the flu or something." He had replied.

"Why you are so afraid of people I will never know."

Bruce drove his Buick LeSabre, a birthday gift from his father's trust fund, through the business district of Gotham. Even during the daytime, the area felt dilapidated. The formerly towering apartment complexes and office buildings had worn with time, and the once-thriving factories of the twenties were all but gone. What they left was crime and desperation in their footprints. Bruce pulled his car up along the Rivera Quad; it was the first sit-down movie theater ever built in Gotham. It was also where his parents were shot and killed.

He really hadn't thought of what to do next. Bruce wanted inspiration; he wanted something to pop out at him and grab him. But all he felt was a pain in his chest and a feeling of emptiness.

Bruce parked the car and shut off the engine. He stared out the passenger side window for a few minutes, staring at the spot on the pavement where he lied, waiting for the police. He was almost in a trance-like state when he was startled by a knock on the driver's side window.

Bruce turned to see a young Asian man, almost his age, knocking. He looked desperate and was pointing to his wrist, as if to inquire about a watch. Bruce, figuring that he needed the time, rolled down the window.

"Yes?" he asked the young man. He noticed how tall he was, especially for someone of Asian descent. _Possibly a mixed race, _he thought.

"Yessir. I need the time." He smiled a devious smile that curled up his face. The Asian teenager pulled a revolver out of his pocket and then pointed it into the car. "In fact, I'll just take your watch."

Bruce reacted before he could think, the result of a decade of training. He moved his left arm up and grabbed the man's hand that held the handgun. Moving his index and middle finger in a grab, he pushed the man's finger up against the trigger guard to prevent him from firing the gun. Then, he grabbed the back of his neck with his opposite hand and pulled him inwards, slamming his head against the metal roof of the car. The resulting slam rocked his hands, causing the weapon to discharge into the car window. The blast was deafening, and Bruce knew it was surely enough to attract attention.

Bruce kicked open the car door into the assailant's chest, knocking him over and scattering the gun to the ground beside him. He lifted the heavy revolver and pointed it at his attacker's face, which was running red with blood. He had cut his face against the car, and it was streaming into his eyes.

"Please, please don't kill me!" the man screamed. He raised his arms over his head to block out his view of Bruce.

Bruce leveled his options. If he shot him, he would never harm anyone else again. However, killing the man would be a crime, and it would only bring him down to his level.

"I'm not going to hurt you anymore." Bruce growled. He was surprised by how deep he could manipulate his voice. As if on cue, a Crown-Vic police car rounded the corner, sirens ablaze. "That's their job." Bruce emptied the revolver onto the man's head, and then tossed the empty weapon aside.

Before the officer could leave his car, Bruce was already gone. He had no intention of staying and complicating matters further, especially now. His mind was racing; thoughts what he had done and what he still had to do flooded his head. His parents had indeed sent him the sign he was looking for. Bruce Wayne was no longer going to sit around and wait for the world to change. In fact, he was going to do the changing.


	4. The Bat

Bruce pulled the LeSabre into the expansive driveway to Wayne Manor. To his surprise, there were already ten or twelve cars already parked in his parking garage.

"Oh shit." He cursed under his breath. He had forgotten completely about his birthday, and the little clock in the dashboard of the Buick read a quarter to one. Bruce found an empty spot and parked the car. As he exited the vehicle, he was met by Alfred.

"Master Bruce, you are almost an hour late to _your own_ birthday party." He commented dryly. Bruce ran past him, fixing his collar and adjusting his suit. Luckily, it wasn't too badly scuffed during his brawl with the mugger an hour earlier.

"Sorry Alfred, I appear to have lost track of time!" He yelled back, smiling. Bruce knew he would have to begin his acting now; all smiles and cheer for the local socialites of Gotham. It was his birthday, after all. As he entered the huge front doors to Wayne Manor, he could hear a voice behind him.

"And what in the hell did you do to the car?"

* * *

After hours of socializing and bullshitting with his fake friends, Bruce Wayne felt exhausted. He knew, however, that his work was far from done. All day the only thought on his mind was the attempted mugging, and the sign that his parents had sent him. At almost midnight, Bruce managed to coax everyone away from his house. Finally, he slipped away to the Manor basement, his own personal 'cave'.

Bruce's ideas turned to the day's events. He knew that it was his destiny to avenge those who could not protect themselves; that part of his mission was clear. But how he would go about it still eluded him. He played with the idea of joining the police force of Gotham, but he knew that they were too corrupt. He would spend most of his time fighting mobsters in the Gotham P.D. than fighting for the weak.

Bruce then remembered a specific story from his childhood. His mother used to tell him of the Regulators, a group of vigilantes that fought unjust white settlers in colonial South Carolina. They worked around the laws that allowed the slaughter of their people, and fought without end for the end of their persecution.

_To fight injustice, and to protect those without protection. That is the true mission of the vigilante._

Bruce's mother's words came to him, beckoning him to visit his memories again. His fist clenched, crushing the pencil between his fingers.

"Mother…father. I see now what you wanted from me. I'm trying my best, but…" Bruce was too preoccupied to notice his stoic butler enter the basement.

"Showing up late to your birthday party, destroying the car, and now talking to yourself? Careful, sir. The neighbors may think you've gone downright _batty_."

Bruce's eyes widened. He flashed back to the fear he saw in the eyes of his mugger, the same alert terror that he felt that night so many years ago. _Fear is universal_.

"Alfred, you are a genius."

"You can't get off this subject with simple flattery, sir. I would at least like to know exactly why you are acting so strangely." Bruce nodded; it was only fair. He figured that his behavior would seem strange to anybody who wasn't him. He went on to explain the entire ordeal of the mugging, the flashbacks, the promise, and the vision he received from his parents.

"Why…_sir._ You plan on becoming a vigilante? I supported martial arts classes and your new-age _yoga_, but…"

"I realize it may be hard to understand, Alfred. But realize that I, Bruce Wayne, can't be a vigilante."

"I'm glad you're coming to your senses!"

"No, you see it is much more complicated my friend. Bruce Wayne is a socialite, a rich playboy with a large mansion and a trust fund. _He _is no longer me; in fact he never was me. The vigilante is a symbol, more immortal than a man, and capable of striking fear, as using it as a weapon in a way no human being can."

"But Master Bruce, you must know the plight of the vigilante. He is feared by everyone, as he has no respect for the law…or _life._ You will be hurting as well as helping." Bruce sighed. He hadn't overlooked what Alfred had said, but it was still hard to think about.

"I'm still planning this, but I think I know what I'm about to do." He turned to face his old friend. "I'm willing to take the risk, Alfred. I'm not in this for fame or to be a hero; I think Bruce Wayne has enough of a reputation. But I want to make this city a better place for everyone; and I think that goes beyond what money and fame can do."

Alfred's eyes brimmed with tears. He had raised this boy since the day his parents died, and had come to see him almost as a grandson. While his plan was surely ridiculous, he also felt an overwhelming sense of pride.

"Well, sir." He said, brushing away a stray tear. "What do you plan to use as your symbol? Surely a suit and tie would not frighten a criminal.

"I'm glad you asked, Alfred. In fact, you inspired me." Bruce held up a piece of paper that he had been scribbling on while they were talking. It was a futuristic drawing of a sleek one piece suit adorned with pointed ears and spiked appendages, and a butterfly-cut, curved cape in the shape of wings.

"The bat, Alfred. The symbol of blind justice; a knight in the darkness. I will become a bat."


End file.
